MAD WORLD
by awfullybad
Summary: What happens when all the nations live together under one roof?  Except France, he got kicked out  You get one helluva crackfic. Includes Italy burning down the kitchen, Japan dying  multiple times , Austria's talking piano and a giant pool party!
1. Chapter 1

Nobody wanted Italy to cook.

The Italian hummed happily and went on making obscure little noises as he prepared the freakin' most amazing meal ever.

Nobody wanted England to cook either. They all valued their lives, after all.

He brought a deep pot to the sink and turned the faucet on. (The one that had been recently replaced since it had mysteriously gone missing one night.) He waited a good ten minutes while the water heated up before remembering he was going to boil it and the temperature that it was going into the pot made no difference.

Ten minutes spilling into the garbage disposal. Forever in a landfill.

Of course, Italy only smiled and continued to go about his business. When the pot was filled to the desired level, he attempted to lift it out of the sink. There were some complications involving that.

Nobody wanted Germany to cook because the only meals he brought to the table were half-assed sausage based entrees—the ones Italy had those frequent nightmares about.

See, when a pot that large is filled with water it becomes quite heavy, too heavy for the feeble Italian to heave over to the stove. Mustering all his strength, his grunted and he strained and he ve'd the hell out of his little voice box as he tried as hard as he could to lift the pot that weighed at least thirty pounds. Thirty pounds, my god.

Nobody wanted America to cook. America didn't cook, actually. He drove (and driving meant cruising on his little bike) to McDonalds and brought back fifty hamburgers, forty for him and ten for the other nations to ration amongst themselves.

Germany was sitting outside the kitchen, plush purple chair beneath him and book in his hands. If he didn't know any better, he'd have thought Italy had been making a sad attempt at masturbation.

Somehow the Italian managed to lift the pot out of the sink. Now he just needed to make it to the stove. Another fierce obstacle.

With wobbling arms and knees, he lifted a foot up. And almost fell.

A bit of water splashed onto the floor. If his hands weren't so full, he would have tried to pick it up and put it back into the pot, but no. If he even tried to bend down, disaster would strike.

Next it was time to move the second foot. Instead of lifting it, he slid across the floor. That provided him with better balance. Awesome.

Nobody wanted France to cook. Last time he cooked, England made a fit of it not being done enough and America had joined in, naturally. Of course, America attempted to piss the both of them off and had succeeded—it wasn't a hard thing for him to do, after all. Cue to chaos ensuing and everyone regretting that the Frenchman had even cooked in the first place.

Besides, France couldn't cook even if nobody had a problem with it. He wasn't allowed into the house anymore.

By sheer miracle, Italy was able to stiffly trek his way over to the stove. He had sung his little song about boiling hot water—through his pants and grunts and ve's—to help him get through his time of tribulation.

When the pot was on the stove and his fingers felt like they would royally fall off, he switched on the stove and let the appliance work its magic.

Meanwhile, he decided to rest. Yawning, he flopped down on the floor, which was much cleaner than one would think, and closed his eyes.

Nobody had much of a problem with any other food. It was just that everybody wanted their own sort of meal because everyone thought everyone else's sort of meal was just crummy compared to his own. They were all right, in a sense.

Italy awoke to the horrible smell of burning cardboard.

"Eeeh?" he sprung up and started looking around in all directions for the source of that horrible smell.

Then he saw it. The stove had gone ablaze.

Frantically, he jumped up and sprang towards the stove. Turned out he turned on the wrong burner. The very burner he had set all the boxes of pasta on.

He quickly started to blow little puffs of air into the roaring flame-the flame that was as big around as the burner and as high as several pasta boxes staked atop each other.

That proved to solve nothing. In fact, one of Italy's hairs caught fire.

Rather than doing the logical, Italy panicked.

By then, Germany had left "the zone" and had run into the kitchen to inspect the source of the smoke that was pouring into the hallway.

He wasn't surprised. No, not in the least.

"Italy!" he hollered, running over to the Italian who was near to tears.

"Waaah~! Germany! My hair!"

"Stay calm!" He instructed in his powerful, deep voice. Without much trouble, he managed to suppress the little flame on Italy's head.

Then he ran over to the sink and threw open the little cabinet door beneath it. The fire extinguisher was….not there?

As if on cue, America went running into the kitchen, dropping to the floor, doing some sort of barrel roll and leaping back up , making a most heroic (or not) entrance. With extinguisher in arms (he had stolen it earlier that day when he learned that Italy was going to prepare the meal) and ready to effortlessly rid of the kitchen of the villainous flames, he beamed.

Smoke was completely filling the kitchen causing all alarms to go off. That caused Italy to panic even more. He began crawling around on the floor in search of Germany.

"Germany! Germany! Where are you? My face…I think it's melting!"

"It's not melting!" The angry blond yelled back.

America continued on as if nothing was wrong, because quite frankly, if he was there to save the day, everything would be okay.

"Don't worry, I've got this under control!"

Then the erratic spraying began. He sprayed propellant anywhere and everywhere simply because he could.

Italy finally reached Germany. Germany was on the floor, that being the logical thing to do when smoke was so heavily filling the room.

"Aaah, Germany~ you're warm," the Italian said as he snuggled up to the other and prepared to take a nap in the middle of a carbon monoxide and extinguisher propellant filled kitchen.

Even after all that time, the fire could still be heard crackling.

"America!" Germany hollered.

Next thing he knew, a foamy white substance rocketed at his face.

"Whoa!" The voice of America.

Germany knew the white substance must have come from America and his large spraying device.

"Arg!" Germany cried as he tried to wipe the propellant from his eyes.

"Germany, I'm going to have to ask you to not interfere with my hero business—"

"Why isn't the fire out?"

"Ah! Well, I was just..."

While America should have been saving the poor stove, he had been graffiti-ing a barely readable "USA" onto the cabinets.

"Just put that fire out!" Germany grabbed Italy's collar and started to drag the both of out of the kitchen.

"Ve…ve…ve…" Italy recited in his sleep.

By the time America doused the flame, the stove was completely ruined, the kitchen was wet and messy with propellant nearly covering the entire floor, the smoke alarms had caused permanent hearing damage to all who had suffered it and above all, their dinner was ruined.

America let out a content sigh as he let the extinguisher drop to the ground. (It had long since been emptied, thanks to America's crazy little spree.)

"Well, I think I did an awesome job."

And that was why nobody wanted Italy to cook.

Telescopes, binoculars, cameras, night vision goggles, tape recorders, infrared lasers, bifocals, France had them all. They were all little devices of sexual perversion that aided in the art of being a professional Peeping Tom.

France had a habit of accidentally walking in on someone changing or showering while he was still living in the Mansion, but after he was kicked out, his little hobby became deeper as he became more devious.

Yes, he had been 'booted off the island' in a sense, and was forced to live in the two story across the street. (It was the only other house on the block, so he couldn't much argue.) Now he spent all his days reading porn-without-plot, spying on and taking pictures of the other countries, fapping and writing poetry.

"Oooh~ you scandalous bastard!" France exclaimed with glee as he most intensely delved into the content of the yaoi novel he had stolen from Japan just last night.

He did often break into the Mansion. Sure, Germany had kicked him out each time and he had narrowly escaped Switzerland's bullets a time or two, but those two weren't enough to stop the Great France. Not at all, because what was on the other side of their house was something that was treasure in France's eyes-a pool.

That's right. A giant pool for women with giant boobs and men with giant dongs to sit around, stand around and lay around in their very revealing swim attire. Whenever France made it back there, he always made sure to have his camera (and his right hand) ready to for action.

Sighing happily at the blissful memories, France slipped the bookmark into the novel and set it down. (The intense butt sex was over so he didn't have too much of problem with discontinuing his reading.)

Getting up from the plush bed, he walked over to his wardrobe, picked out a frilly little thong, threw it on and headed for the Batcave his secret underground linkage system that he had created so he'd be able to sneakily have access to the Mansion at all times.

"Francis, you're so sly~" he purred to himself.

And then France went off to do what France did best.

A knock-no, make that a few knocks-on his door tore England from his serene state of mind that was achieved only through extensive embroidery, hours upon hours of it. Sighing, he set the equipment down and huffily made his way to the door.

"Yes, what is-ACKuharghgahhtck!"

As soon as England had opened the door, America whipped out a spare extinguisher from behind his back and instantly started releasing the thick white substance all over England.

In simple terms, it didn't end well.

Italy's hair was a bit charred and he smelt of smoke, so Germany had woken him up and thrown him into the bathroom for a shower even though the poor Italian was determined to cook the pasta that had long since burnt to a crisp.

Never the less, Italy wouldn't argue. A chance to get naked was a chance to get naked, and he just loved being exposed, much like France (although France's reasons for liking the openness differed quite a bit from Italy's).

Once in the shower, he began humming to himself and before long it turned into a full out singing.

"Hey hey papa give me wine~ Hey hey mama, hey hey mama! Mama give me...LOTS of pasta!" And then began fumbling with the bar of soap. "I love pasta~! Pasta, pasta, yay! Waah!"

The soap had dropped to the floor during Italy's vain attempts to get a decent grip on the slippery thing. Oh, but Italy only shrugged and started dumping Herbal Essence on top of his head.

Snap snap!

"Haah?" Italy could have sworn he saw a flash or two...

Snap snap!

The snapping and flashing reminded Italy very much of a camera, but hmmm~ He sure didn't bring a camera in the bathroom, so of course, it was probably just his imagination! It wasn't there there really was some sort of picture taking device up in the air vent above the shower. Of course not.

"It was just a joke!"

"No, it was bollocks."

There on the couch sat America and England, both wounded by the other. Both had different attitudes. America was completely pleased with himself that he had managed to 'prank' England like that, and England was pissed (but what's news?).

America looked down. "Hmm, okay, maybe I did deserve it when you punched me in the face, but...I couldn't help but laugh! You looked freakin' hilarious with all that white stuff all over your-"

"Do you want me to rip the smile off your face, git?" England growled.

"But the whole trying to stab me with the needle thing was a little crazy even for you..."

England jumped him, the poor Brit already stressed and angry, so why not vent in the form of physical violence a bit more?

Italy had finished his shower without much difficulty. True, he kept imagining flashes, but they weren't so bad after awhile.

Stepping out of the bathroom, with the towel around his shoulder rather than his waist so it failed to cover his downstairs, Italy decided he was in the mood for some music.

There was a "mini hospital" in the Mansion. Like the kitchen, it was located on floor two so that those who lived on floors one and three could easily access such important places.

There wasn't much to it. It was divided into two little rooms. The first was a simple, small space with some large abstract paintings on the walls, a couple chairs and a couch or two. It looked like an office of some sort. The second room was hidden behind a door in the first one, and that's where one could go to be treated.

The two rooms were added because from time to time the residents would get violent with one another and waiting for a hospital ride wasn't going to cut it when you had some large object shoved down your throat (other than a cock, although that could be used as a weapon), or a sharp and pointy thing in your back..

Russia stepped out of the treatment room and into the waiting room, not surprised to see England on top of America and trying to choke him.

Of course, Russia only smiled, pair of scissors and shot of sedative in his hands.

"? ?" He greeted.

The power in Russia's cheery voice was enough to cause England and America to freeze.

With that smile still plastered on his face, he held up the scissors. "Daa, who wants to go first? America, do you?"

Neither of the blonds foresaw this. Russia never had tried to nurse someone before. It was almost as if the crazy bastard had planned it all along.

"Uh..."

The Russian's smile grew wider. "Why don't you come back with me? I'll fuck you up real good. Aah, oops. I meant to say fix."

America slid out from under England and slipped onto the floor. "I'm feeling great, actually," and he slinked over to the door even though his face was still throbbing and his eyes twitched occasionally. " I should pick up tonight's dinner before it gets too late, haha~"

Russia's smile never faded. "Oh, I see." Then he turned to England, "What about you? Don't you want me to fix you?"

England got up. "No, no, I think I'm quite fine as well..." A lie, of course. He was still in great pain from when America took the extinguisher to his head.

And very quickly, before Russia could try to do anything horrible and morally incorrect to them, the two blonds ran out of the room.

Sighing, Russia dropped his arms and looked down at the scissors and sedative still in his hands. After a moment, his lips curved into a malicious smile.

"Hmmm~ where could Latvia be?"

Oh, that's right. He was still locked in the freeze. Well, there was always Lithuania.

Italy could hear the beautiful melody as it reverberated through the walls. He gave the door a knock and before be waiting for an answer, he stepped inside. A long time ago, he would have been too shy to so casually step into Austria's room like that, but times have changed.

When Italy entered, the music died. Not abruptly, but it faded.

Blue. Blue was everywhere. The walls, the carpet, the door and the furniture that was neatly pressed against the walls were all blue. The same exact color blue.

"Welcome, Italy."

"Whoa! Austria, did your voice change?"

"No, I am not Austria. I am Franz, the piano."

Italy hovered over Austria. "The piano can talk!" he gasped, finding it mind boggling, and for once, something that shocked Italy was something actually shocking.

Austria nodded. "Franz is the most intelligent piano in the history of life. And please, my personal bubble is a meter in circumference, so if you'd please step back a bit..."

Italy ignored Austria because he was much too fascinated by the piano. "Can it say pasta?"

"Pasta; a generic term for variants of noodles, food made from a dough of flour, water and/or eggs. The word can also denote dishes in which pasta products are the primary ingredient, served with sauce or seasonings."

"Whoa!" Italy gawked although he didn't quite understand all of what the piano had said. "C-can it say pizza?"

"Pizza; a world-popular dish of Italian origin, made with an oven-baked, flat, generally round bread that is often covered with tomatoes or a tomato-based sauce and mozzarella cheese. Other toppings are added according to region, culture, or personal preference."

Austria finally looked up from the keys and looked at the naked man with disapproval, "Italy, you're exposed."

"Penis, an external sexual organ of certain biologically male organisms, in both vertebrates and penis is a reproductive organ, technically an intromittent organ, and for placental mammals, additionally serves as the external organ of urination. The penis is generally found on mammals and reptiles."

"Silence, Franz."

Dinner was fine. Japan died, but that's nothing new.

As promised, America headed for McDonalds after he and England ran away from Russia. He arrived back home and the usual dinner ritual began.

It was Austria who decided they all eat together and in fact, he's was the one who decided there would be a designated cook, insisting he couldn't sleep at night because he'd think about how everyday everyone would be having a different meal at a different time. Not only that, but he insisted that everyone sit in the same spot every day. He would have made everyone sit in order of tallest to shortest, had not Prussia, who was prone to mysteriously pop up at random times, shoved a bottle of pills up his ass and told Austria to lighten up (as well as demanding that Austria give him a blow job).

America had bought just about everything on the menu, having to feed at least thirty other people plus himself. He dumped all the food in the middle of the table and told everyone to just grab whatever they felt like eating.

"Except for England. He doesn't get any...haha, just kidding!"

England started to angrily picked up all the Big Macs to spite America.

Japan thought about what he'd like to eat. 'America isn't so inconsiderate,' he thought, noticing in the pile of food there happened to be some Japanese inspired items.

Sitting next to Japan was Russia. He was squirting a smiley face onto his fires with ketchup.

"That is happy Russia," he said to himself with a pleased smile.

Japan didn't dare ask questions.

Dinner went on fairly well the rest of the night, for the most part.

America had fought with England over the Big Macs. Part of England horded them because he wanted to piss America off for the taller nation's little prank earlier, and the other part, the very, very small other part, mind you, horded them because he might have actually sort of just a little bit liked them. Maybe.

Poland was having strange phone sex while enjoying his meal, Lithuania was watching Poland have strange phone sex and wishing Russia hadn't stolen his phone so that he may partake in the activity with his biffelz, Austria (who had recovered from earlier) was cutting the salad into six equal sections and making sure to drizzle the same amount of dressing on each, Italy was explaining to Germany about the time he saw a fuzzy catapiller and named it after the blond, Romano was trying to stab Germany with a fork, Finland and Sweden were mentally preparing themselves for the wild crazy sex they'd have later that night, China was being sexually assaulted by Korea and everyone else was pretty much engaging in conversation over dinner.

Latvia wasn't there, but no one really noticed.

Belarus wasn't there because she never left her coffin until the sun was completely down.

Somewhere in the ventilation shafts, France lurked.

Then something went horribly wrong.

In Romano's attempts to stab Germany, the fork slipped out of his hand and was propelled straight at Japan. Japan didn't see what hit him. Next thing he knew, a fork was in his head and he was facepalming as he fell to the ground.

It was sad that nobody really noticed. Well, except for the horrified Germany, Romano and Italy. Oh, but then there was Russia, who simply smiled and assured everyone, "Oh, he's just choking."

He dropped to his knees and prepared to preform some serious CPR.

Before they were all dismissed (because Austria insisted that they leave the table at the same time), Germany reminded everybody that there was supposed to be a pool party at eight that night.

Oh boy.

Latvia held himself tightly.

Once again, he banged on the door. "I-is anybody out there? H-help...I'm trapped in t-this f-frreeezerrr."

"Nobody can hear your cries for help," Russia said from outside the door. "Give up Latvia. Give up." He walked off, leaving Latvia to his misery.

"Daa, I better water the sunflowers before the party, hehe~"


	2. Chapter 2

Well, it isn't so bad.

The music- loud, booming and energetic—could be heard through deep, thunderous reverberations. Flashing, colorful lights ignited the dark sky. Laughing, talking, and yelling could all be heard. Excitement and energy practically oozed out of the backyard, creating a thick, heavy atmosphere that could easily entice anyone.

No, Canada had lied to himself. It was damn horrible.

Behind the privacy fence was a world. A world filled with booming music, strobe lights, failed attempts at dancing, enough alcohol to fill multiple tubs, girls in bikinis, topless guys—many, many topless guys, kinky little pool games, drunk karaoke singing and probably anything and everything else that normally goes on during a party filled with hormonal young adults.

"I got it! Hell yeah!"

That was Turkey. It seemed like his Internet connection, which was actually a connection he stole from England's router, had improved so now a jpeg took only two minutes to load instead of five. Amazing.

Vrooooom

"Shit."

And that was Egypt. Why he was standing on the edge of the sidewalk with his thumb out trying to hitchhike, no one knew. He had big dreams to make it to the city and live the better life. Sadly, his dreams were always crushed because even though he spent every waking hour standing on the sidewalk, none of the cars stopped for him.

"Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz….."

Guess who that was. No, really. Guess.

So there sat the four of them. Turkey with a laptop on his well, lap, Egypt at the road side, Greece sprawled out on the grass in an eternal slumber and Canada, legs crossed and sitting on a metal bench.

Then Canadian expelled a sigh. "I'm too good for them. Yes, that's it."

And that was what he thought. He had voluntarily left the mansion because he had been fed up with everyone's shit, after all. So for the longest time, he was happy he didn't have to hear everyone ask him who he was, or listen to America babble about useless asshattery or put up with Cuba's accidental insults. Yes, for the longest time he didn't miss those people at all. That's why he had joined the "Homeless Crew" because being homeless was so much cooler than living with a bunch of crack heads. (Although Turkey, Greece and Egypt were practically crack heads too.)

But the hype exploding from the backyard sure made his chest feel empty.

"W—"

Before Kumajiro could even pronounce another letter, Canada snapped, "Shut up Kumajiro. I know what you're going to say and I'm sick of it. Who, you ask? You know who? CANADA! The one who feeds you, the one who cleans up after you piss on your potty mat, the one who shoves you in the washer and laughs while you spin around and around, the one who reads you bedtime stories at one in the damn morning! I'm HIM. The guy that takes care of you!"

Obviously, Canada was prone to random outbursts of anger.

Kumajiro blinked. "Would you like to touch my tra la la? My ding ding dong?"

Well, that was new.

Of course, England refused the alcohol at first. He knew what that devilish beverage did to him, but then...

America did something very, very evil. Of course, America's wickedness began earlier that night. How about a flashback?

Why hadn't England had spotted that tattoo before? It was so obviously etched into a noticeable spot on America's chest, but…could he really not have seen that before? All those centuries of hot, angry sex and he hadn't even noticed it on the younger nation?

The horror only continued from then on.

"Heeey, England. Like my ink?"

"Oh, yes. Say, is that…is that recent?"

If America grinned any wider, his face would crack. His mouth would probably fall off and hit the floor, than start spouting lots and lots of nonsense about how having a jacked up face made him oh so epic.

"What? Are you kidding? England, come on."

"W-what do you mean?" The now blushing nation sputtered. "I asked you a simple question…"

"Geez, England, I really didn't know you were this clueless!"

America was sure one to talk, wasn't he? Of course, England's personality had completely changed now and instead of chewing the annoying blond out, he only blushed a bit harder and wanted even more desperately to get to the bottom of this mindfucking puzzle.

"Clueless? If anyone's clueless it's you…! S-so what are you saying? It is new or not?" England was dreading that America might say it wasn't new, or try to trick him into thinking it wasn't new when it was. Oh, then England would end up looking so stupid and it would be all America's fault, again.

"I'm hurt, England." Of course, America knew he could only keep the act up so long before England flipped his little tea pot-like lid. So he gave in, having gained satisfaction from seeing England all flustered. "Nah, I just found the tattoo in a pack of really cheap gum and decided to wear it for the big party. Preeety cool, huh?"

That was heavenly compared to the next malevolent thing America did.

England expelled a sigh of relief. So, he hadn't missed it for all those years.

'Of course America would never get a real tattoo!' He laughed inwardly. He'd start tearing up like a silly child, whimpering sad little things about being dust irritating his eyes, before the needle even touched him.

"Ah, just as I thought," England replied smugly.

"Oh, but I've got another one I wanted to wear around. Want to see it?"

"Honestly, America, I don't want to waste my time looking at your retarded ta-"

"It's right down there on my waaaaay lower back…"

"-ttoo….Well, I suppose a quick look wouldn't hurt….but be quick about it."

When America had said 'way lower back', he wasn't messing around. He had to pull the brim of his swim trunks down (more than) a tad to reveal the second tattoo.

England could have died. No, he did. His soul had surely left his body for a second, and not in a good way. Not in a good way at all.

There, on America's enticing, exposed flesh was a horrible, disgusting sight. The very thing England could have repulsive nightmares about, the very thing that had tormented him for centuries.

France's face.

Oh, yes. England was sure he had died for a second.

The alcohol thing? Right. Well, America's desire to sin was obviously very strong that night. Just when England thought the other nation couldn't sink any lower, he had.

Whether anybody wanted to believe it or not, growing up with British and French influence had obviously affected not only America's childhood, but his mind and his well being. How could one not be mentally corrupted by two sexually perverted countries? It's just that England didn't want to believe the effects of such perversion would carry onto America's adulthood.

Then there came the barely audible, "Oh…bollocks…"

Face red with anger, England skittered off, too stunned to bite America's head off for the vile image on his body. Never had England expected America to do something so cruel and naughty!

England had sought refuge at the bar. And it was there at the bar that America preformed his most evil of deeds.

Why had he gone to the bar? So he could slowly drown himself in the desire to drink rather than drown himself in the desire to kill America. And France, for that matter. Mostly France.

He had told himself, multiple times over, that he wouldn't drink. He knew what would happen and he knew it would end horribly.

"Hey, England, why'd you run away like that?"

"Bloody hell!" The frustrated blond exclaimed as he turned to the young man who had taken a seat beside him. "Can't you run off and do something else besides bother me? Perhaps, jump into the pool and drown?

While England continued to fuss, America searched around the cooler. There were German beers and vodka and Sunny D. The Sunny D was mostly for Sealand, but Italy enjoyed them too.

Humming to himself and utterly ignoring whatever England was ranting, America pulled out a beer (he had been hesitant to choose the vodka, knowing it was Russia's and fearing his hand would start melting if he touched it) and set it down on the bar counter.

"—and damnit, I have feelings too!"

"Want a drink? They're still pretty cold," America suggested innocently.

"Bugger off!"

America started on opening the bottle. "You knooow~ I bet I could drink more than you."

Those words would royally mess up England's world.

England froze. His body stiffened and he lost his train of thought.

"N-no, I'm not falling for that."

America shrugged, but still had a silly grin on his face. "You're just going to give up like that?"

England could feel his face start to burn again. His strength was being questioned, by America no less! The last he wanted to do was refuse a challenge by the younger nation. The other last thing he wanted to do was get drunk as shit.

"How can I give up if I haven't even begun anything? H-honestly America, you're as stupid as ever—"

"I dare you~"

"…Dare me to do what?"

"Have a drinking contest with me!"

"I said no!"

"You're too afraid to lose to me again, aren't you?"

"A-again?"

Once more, America grinned too widely for it to be healthy. "I guess your last defeat was just too much for you to handle. I don't blame you. I kicked your ass pretty bad-"

"Give me the bottle!" England snarled and grabbed the beer, chugging it furiously.

America really knew what made England tick.

And that was the tale of America's wickedness and why England was on his fourth bottle, his mind quickly leaving him.

America was only on his second bottle, and he was taking his precious time sipping, because he knew England would be drunk as hell in a second and there was really no need to rush. After all, once the older nation went through one bottle, he kept going and going so the contest was pretty much won. (Not that America planned to actually have a contest in the first place; he just needed to convince England to drink.)

It didn't take much longer before England's sanity finally left him.

He slammed the bottle on the counter and turned to America , who was expecting to soon be rolf'ing at whatever silly insults were going to come out of England's intoxicated mouth.

"AMERICA, GIVE MOMMY SOME LOVE."

Not as planned!

America laughed nervously. "Well, uh…."

"G-get on your knees and…and give Sir Willy a proper mouth-to-mouth!" At this, England did a little pelvic thrust at America who scooted towards the edge of his seat.

"Not now," he said quietly, as if someone would hear over the thundering music. As if everyone didn't already know that they were butt buddies.

"OH? Giving up already? You fat, sad little wanker! The joke is on YOU now, isn't it, America?"

America hopped off the bar stool, for England was slowly closing the distance between them.

"S-sooo, what'd you think of my…my earlier demand? How's your Congress going to—hic—going to settle that one?"

"We can….get it on later?" America suggested, making his way to the edge of the pool.

"Later? Always p-putting things off, are you? Is that why you ejaculate at the last second? You…you selfish bastard…!"

Before America could protest at all, a desperate cry was heard.

"Flee, aru!"

That would be none other than China, who was frantically running around the pool with Korea hot on his tail, large paddle in his hands.

"Aniki! This is for rowing purposes only! Didn't you know that rowing originated from Korea?"

Japan, who was following close behind, facepalm'd.

Wait a second….

America was too busy watching the Azn trio to notice England literally jump him. They both crashed into the water.

Canada looked up at the stars. You could see so many of them, living all the way in the middle of nowhere and all.

Oh, they were probably all having so much damn fun. So much fun without Canada. And did any of them miss him? No, of course they didn't. They couldn't even remember his name. At least the Homeless Crew knew him and respected him.

A fire burning inside of him, possibly from rage, possibly from arousal, possibly from sheer insanity, Canada decided that him and his friend might as well party it up.

"Turkey, break out the alcohol."

"Who the hell said that?"

Egypt shrugged. "Maybe…Greece."

"The bastard woke up?" Turkey set his laptop down and crawled over to Greece. "Hey! You're finally awake? Where's the blowjob I paid for, huh?" With that, he began slapping Greece, to make sure he was really awake, of course.

Canada wanted to rip something up. He wanted to perhaps tear someone's face off and shove it down Kumajiro's throat. But no. He was the better person, and no matter how many assholes would forget his name, he'd stay perfectly calm about it.

"Ah, damn! It bit me!" Turkey shouted.

Dark, cold and eerie, the room was vacant of any life. A spine chilling aura seemed to intoxicate the space. The only sound that could be heard was creeping death. Life, death, matter, time, none of it existed in that room after sunset.

Then the sound of a coffin door flying open. A deep, horrible wheezing sound. A body rising from its resting place. Groans of sexual frustration.

It was time.

After America and England had left, the bar didn't stay vacant for too much longer.

After making sure Italy put on his floaties before jumping into the deep end of the pool, Germany decided he deserved a beer. Or two. Or three.

"Germany, Germany, look at me!" He heard Italy shout gleefully as the Italian splashed about.

Germany gave him a nod and hoped that he wouldn't somehow pop the float tubes and end up drowning, because if it was Italy in question, anything could happen.

"This is a disaster."

Germany turned to find Austria kneeling over the cooler with thermometer in hand.

"The ice is entirely 1.754 degrees too warm for my personal tastes. Now all the drinks will be ruined. What a shame."

Germany started to wonder how a man like Austria managed to live in a mansion of chaos. Then again, he shut himself up in his room all day and had wonderful adventures with Franz, but Germany still couldn't help but thinking that'd die if he was as OCD as the Austrian was.

"You're too freakin' serious, that's what your problem is," Prussia, who was known to randomly pop out of bushes and such, diagnosed.

Austria only grimaced at the sound of his voice and pretended to ignore him.

"Flippin' a shit over every little thing will make your asshole tighter, which means it'll just hurt more." Prussia grabbed a handful of ice, wincing at the cold but still grinning as wide as ever. "You should seriously chill out!" With that, he dumped the handful of ice down Austria's swim trunks.

That caused Austria and fall to the ground as if he was going to have a seizure. He might very well have been, actually.

Then Prussia laughed maniacally at the silly pun simply because he, the most fucking amazing guy in the whole damn world, had said it.

Cue Germany chugging the last of his beer then running to Austria's side in attempts to stop the man from hyperventilating.

"Austria, hang in there!" Germany cried.

"He sounds like he's freakin' having a baby!" Prussia laughed. He got on his knees next to Germany and faked the best compassionate tone he could, "It's okay, baby. Just keeping breathing like they taught you in class! Oh, and if it's a boy, we're naming him Frederick Gilbert the Great II."

Germany grabbed another beer. He was going to need it.

"Did he wink at you?" S. Italy hissed, floating over to the other.

N. Italy looked to his brother blankly. "Germany doesn't wink, silly—"

"He definitely winked at you. Do you what that means?"

"Hmmmmmm~"

"It means that the potato bastard wants to get in your pants, that's what."

Italy smiled, "How can he get into my pants? I don't think he would fit! Macho Germany~ Besides, I almost always keep my pants off when I hang out with him."

S. Italy's face went red. Of all the horrible, disgusting things in this world…!

"I'm not done! Listen carefully, he's wants to get you in bed and then, when you least expect it, TEAR YOU TO PIECES."

N. Italy simply cocked his head to the side in confusion. "But, Brother, I already sleep with Germany!" He dunked his head underwater and pulled up, shaking it back and forth and drizzling water all over his brother. Accidently, of course. "Rain~ rain~" he chanted.

"You do?" S. Italy gasped, becoming very, very horrified at all the things he was hearing his beloved brother say. "I bet he's rough and violent and careless. I bet he doesn't even give you a decent reach around, does he?"

"Look, Brother! When the light hits the water, it looks really pretty!"

"I bet he gets off on seeing you cower before his bulky mass of muscles, the damn villain….!"

"I want to dance later," N. Italy said. "Big Brother France was doing it earlier, and it looked fun!" Italy smiled,not caring if France had been banned from the backyard or not.

"France was not dancing! He was taking his clothes off to music!" The paranoid of the two hissed again., too angry to remember that France wasn't allowed anywhere near the house.

It wasn't until then that he realized his brother and he were surrounded by freaks. Terrible, mind warping freaks.

"It looked fun."

S. Italy pushed his brother's head under water. "BE CLEAN! These bastards have fucked up your mind, but there's still time to reverse the effects! PURFICATION. PURIFICATION!"

From the window she saw him. His pale body called to her, tempted her. She could see the desire in his deep, violet eyes. His smile couldn't fool her. Already she could taste him on her tongue. How soft and sweet his cold body would feel beneath hers. Arousal was coming on thick.

She let out a heavy sigh and ran her hand down the window. She would anything just to taste him. She would have even given her soul, had she still had one.

"Big brother…" she moaned hungry and needy, desire thick on her words.

After touching herself, she descended.

After a while, the pool games commenced. It started with a party favorite, Marco Polo. When playing with a least forty people, the game was damn crazy.

Germany was the only one man enough to volunteer to be Marco for the first turn. He counted to zehn and began to blindly move about the pool.

There were so many people shouting polo at once that Germany was turning and moving around in so many different direction, he was getting dizzy. He stood still, and just like a radio, began to signal in on certain voices.

Grunting.

"You like this, you dirty little trollap?"

Gasping.

"Yeah! Hell yeah I do!"

"Who's your fucking daddy, America?"

"You are! You are!"

Moaning.

Right. Next station.

"NO LONGER WILL YOUR MIND BE CORRUPTED!"

"Brother-gasp—I can't—gasp-breathe!"

Oh shit.

"Oh my gawd, he was like, a total dick about it. I was like, 'well if you're gonna tell me that the skirt makes my ass look big, you can just, totally not come over and play dress up with me anymore.' And he was getting like, soooo mad! Totally NOT hot. Geez."

No, not that one either.

"Big brother….I have come for you."

Screaming.

"Run Forest, run!"

More screaming.

Okay….

And meanwhile, France, who was stark naked, was accidently bumping into everybody, but they were all having too much fun to notice him.

While everyone was having a blast playing Marco Polo, Sealand was chillin' on his island. Yes, he had been given a little ghetto island in the back of the pool where he lived in his ghetto little house.

Sipping on hard core orange juice drink, he bobbed his head to the music, feeling very adult and all. He plotted on how he'd try to lose his virginity that night. What? It was practically mandatory for one to lose his virginity at a wild adult party! Perhaps he should look to his older brother, who was slamming America up against the pool and fondling the hell out of him, as an example.

Cuba was also watching England viciously express his love, only Cuba didn't know exactly what England was doing. See, he thought England was trying to kill America.

"Woot! Go England! Bite his mouth off, that's the spirit! Not so tough now, are you, fat ass?"

"Eh," Sealand, who is surprisingly gangster in this fanfiction, said. "They aint fightin'. They'z havin water sex."

"That's right! Suck his brains out through his mouth!"

"HEY! I said, they is havin' SEX."

"Rip his dick off! Go go go!" Cuba busted out a tub of ice cream and broke it open. This was real entertainment.

"Want me to bust a sea shell up yo ass? 'Cause I'a do it."

Back to the game.

Finally, Germany ended up tagging someone.

The game carried on for multiple rounds, each round including everyone pushing each other, getting frisky and trying to trick whoever was trying to tag them.

More games followed, such as that one where someone sat on someone's shoulder and had a little fight with another pair of people doing the same thing. The Southern Italian refused to let his northern brother play, saying that North Italy's balls couldn't be within five feet of someone's face.

Russia, Belarus, China, Korea and Japan also could not participate in the games because Russia was too busy fleeing from his horny sister, China was too busy running from Korea and Japan was too busy trying to stop Korea from spanking China with that paddle, not to mention he was quite busy protecting his own breasts.

"Okay Aniki, now bend over…"

"Once we're married, no one can get me in trouble for molesting you in your sleep."

The insanity pretty much continued from then on with those five.

After the silly pool games, everyone decided to grab an alcoholic beverage or two, get drunk and start dancing.

By then, Austria had recovered and his cock had properly defrosted so he decided to join in on the dancing. Naturally, Prussia wanted to show off his uber dance moves.

So, with everyone drunk and wild, the dancing began.

Sealand picked himself to be DJ, and that was highly appreciated since he somehow happened to know all of the hottest hip hop, techno and dance tracks ever.

He was so damn proud to see Mama and Papa dry humping to the rhythms of the songs. One day, he'd be just like that.

"I want to dance!" The poor Italian whined.

"No. Those horny bastards will eat you up. I can see the damn potato eyeing you right now. He probably can't wait to tear your swim shorts off…"

"Oh, you mean this?" N. Italy held up his bottom for his brother to see.

His brother grimaced. Oh, the dismay!

"Put that back on!"

Somewhere in the process of DJing and beat boxing, Sealand spilled an entire bottle of Sunny D on the speakers. They fizzled, crackled, sparked and caught fire and caused even more sparks to fly off all the other equipment.

"Fireworks!" N. Italy exclaimed.

Everyone just cheered as Sealand turned the strobe lights back on.

Meanwhile, Seychelles rode around on a big ass fish.

France collapsed on his couch. He had managed to narrowly escape in time to stop himself from passing out on the deck like everyone else had. Sighing happily, he pulled out his collection of photos he had taken that night.

America having an underwater orgasm, Ukraine bending down to pick up Russia's fallen scarf, Sweden and Finland getting freaky on the dance floor, Poland with his bikini bottom off, Austria getting ice down his pants, Switzerland in a maid outfit during his nightly cleaning of the Mansion (Sure, France's camera now had a bullet hole in it, but the shot was worth it!), Estonia and Latvia trying to pull Lithuania's shirt off, Latvia falling into the pool in the process, Estonia and Lithuania screaming "LATVIAAA!", Seychelles falling off the fish, China getting spanked, Japan facepalm'ing, Japan drowning by getting stuck under Sealand's island, Russia giving Japan CPR, Japan getting molested by Korea—damn, there were a lot of Japan—Prussia doing the splits and breaking his swim shorts, Hungary taking a picture of France taking a pictures—wait, how did that work?—and various other naughty things.

France could die happy.

"Is he really going to do it?" Egypt cautiously looked at Turkey.

"Oh yeah."

"You sure?"

"Definitely."

"ZzzzzZZzzzzz…."

"Hey you, wake up and give me that blow job!"

On top of the roof was Canada, three stories up in the air. With a hammer in his hand. Drunk, angry and wild.

"Should we…." Egypt's voice trailed off.

"Nah. Not yet."

Canada lifted the hammer over his head and brought it harshly down on the roof, creating quite a large, nasty hole.

"Guess who's busting up your freakin' roof? THAT'S RIGHT. YOUR DAMN HAT!"

Another swig, then another, and another….

"You've screwed me over long enough you American moose head…! I'm sick of your messed up mind games! Revenge has never been sweeter!"

Smash! Smash! Smash!

"Yeaaah! How da hell you like this NOW? Hahahahaha…! Your hat. Don't make me sick! Pffffffft. I'll h-have you weeping! I'll be dumping searing hot maple syrup in your EYES when you least expect it!"

Canada continued his smashing spree until it was dangerous to stand up there any longer.

"Now?"

Turkey cleared his throat and shouted, "Hey, Canada, that's Poland's room!"

Canada dropped the hammer.

"Damn."


End file.
